Origins Of An End
by Velerus
Summary: It was...a thought. Perhaps not even that, simply an errant musing buried beneath infinitely grander machinations, one that by all rights should have simply vanished into the ether. But it didn't, it refused too. What if it all simply...ceased to be?


_**Your dead shall live; their bodies shall rise. You who dwell in the dust, awake and sing for joy! For your dew is a dew of light, and the earth will give birth to the dead.**_

-Isaiah 26:19

It always felt paradoxical to wake up in Gotham with the sun on his face. Moving here, hearing the stories, he'd expected the city to be enshrouded in a perpetual night, people stumbling to safety amidst barred doors and drawn shades. But, no, the morning always came, even here. It might've been poetic if people like him didn't work in the daylight.

What _was_ the schedule today? A conference call with the company CFO and that idiot in charge of the record company. Probably going to have to amend some of the contracts he drew up bleeding heart that he was. And surely Ms. Madison wouldn't even let him hang up his coat without giving him a hundred other things to do. Such is life.

He rolled onto his side intent on getting a few minutes of sleep before his mind inevitably turned back his work. But he paused, brow furrowed, head elevated off his pillow. He flexed his left hand back towards his wrist and...yes, that was the cuff of one of his shirts. That...wasn't right, he hadn't been wearing anything when he went to bed last night. Or had he dreamt that? He remembered coming home, stripping out of his attire, and sliding under the sheets, but exhaustion tended to addle his thoughts.

He sighed. Didn't matter, no clothes in bed, that's the rule. He sluggishly propped himself up on his forearms and swung his feet over the bed.

He sits on the edge, head bowed, then finally rises, shuffling to the bathroom like there were chains around his ankles. He's past the door frame before the sound of his heavy footfalls reaches his ears.

Shoes? Had he worn his shoes to be-…

His eyes widen as he looks down and catches sight of his clothing: His black winter jacket, his blue and white striped dress shirt, a dark pair of pants, and black wing tipped shoes.

He saw the blood first, spreading outward from numerous tears like the fabric itself was wounded. They covered him, small and large cuts in his shirt, pants, and coat. The largest one was directly above his heart, a gout of blood stemming from it like flood water nearly covering his entire chest.

Splatters of dirt and muck had mixed with the blood, birthing a muddy crimson that traversed his form, occasionally interrupted by splotches of red or tracks of brown. His shoes were encrusted with mud and flooded with enough of it to make moving his toes nearly impossible.

A stillness fell over him, a conscious one. An attempt to subdue the sudden shaking, the rapid pulse, and the ragged breath. He raises a hand and pressed it against his chest, feeling around the rim of the tear.

Wet.

He dazedly brushed a finger down his leg, feeling out the rips. Wet.

He ran his hand down his jackets tattered leather. Wet.

All wet.

He blinked heavily, then blinked again, half to collect his thoughts, half in hope that his state was just his taxed mind playing a trick on him. But, no, that didn't happen, that would be too simple.

Alright. Alright. _Think_. He just needed to think.

He propped his right arm with his left and scratched his cheek with his first two fingers, his mind a tempest.

First things first, was he injured? It didn't feel like it, he felt no pain, his mouth wasn't filling with blood, he hadn't felt any bumps or bruises. He untangled his arms and reached into the hole on his shirt, feeling his skin. The...stains were fresh but his skin felt unblemished, no cuts or lacerations, no stitches either, so he hadn't been found and patched up. He was physically unimpaired. Good. That was good.

Okay... _why_ was he such a mess? There was no reason for his present state, the last thing he remembered was coming home from work, undressing, getting in bed, and falling to sleep. Yet, here he was, fully clothed and...appearing as if he'd been under the care of one of Gotham's numerous psychopaths.

... _Had_ that happened? It _could_ explain his lack of injury, he isn't entirely sure of the capabilities of Gotham's criminal element, but someone must be able to heal. And he has enemies, some certainly capable of hiring scum to get rid of him. But they _hadn't_ gotten rid of him...a warning? No one was in his sights at present, his current affairs were all internal. Preemptive? Maybe…

Too many maybes. What could he do?

Call the police? Most certainly, but he'd rather attempt to find some answers on his own first. Hard as it was to remember whose pocket the Gotham Police Force was stuffed in on a day to day basis.

So he needed answers, where could he go from here?

...Ask Mr. Shaer? Would...whatever had happened even have involved the use of the front door? Could be why he was dressed so presentably. Or at all as the case may be.

He didn't have any better ideas.

It was his best option.

He pivoted on his heel, ready to march down to the apartment lobby, but stopped, catching a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror. Should probably change; _he_ looked okay but his clothes were...conspicuous at best.

He turned his head towards his bedroom, managing a single step past the threshold, his shoe straddling the line between hard tile and plush carpet. He paused, taking in his bedroom, devoid of almost every decoration and amenity he had deigned to install. The bed was bare of his sheets, the book shelf above the head board where he kept his favorites was empty, the bedside table had simply vanished. And…

He marched to his dresser and wrenched the first drawer open. Then the second, then the third.

...His clothes were gone.

He stood there for a moment, in front of the open dresser, hands turning white as they tried to dig trenches into the surface, before pushing off towards the bedroom door. Flinging it open, he peeks out into his living and purses his lips at the sight of naked wood floors and the unhindered sunlight streaming down on them.

...Well.

* * *

Henry Shaer like to think of himself as something of a veteran when it came to Gotham Towers. He mused sometimes that expert or maestro would be a more befitting title but, having spent 12 years behind the lobby desk, he could safely say that this place was less residence and more battlefield. One that he'd quickly learned to navigate and utilize like only a veteran would.

Being within a stone's throw of some of the most powerful people in the city, as well as being about as noticeable as dust under a boot, the help staff...heard things. Saw others. And from time to time, someone would get it into their heads that they'd report some of those things, be a hero and all that. Which consequently led to an interestingly high turnover rate for faculty employees as well as a few extra obituaries in the Gotham Gazette. Unconnected to any of the goings on here, of course.

But it didn't take a detective to connect the almost insultingly obvious dots, and it certainly didn't take a genius to realize the "lay of the land", so to speak.

Keep your head down.

Keep your ears covered.

Keep your mouth shut.

And you'd be taken care of.

Simple. And very lucrative, if you played your cards right and didn't think _to_ hard about the blood stains on your pay check. The job wasn't even difficult, a few greetings and goodbyes, a minimal amount of paperwork, answer a couple questions here and there, and you could easily spend the rest of your time playing solitaire.

He was in the middle of a game now, head propped on his fist, the click of his mouse bouncing off the empty lobby walls. The cursor was hovering over a stack of royal suites before he heard the elevator door swing open behind him. Henry minimized the window, bringing the security feed back up, and straightened in his chair, glancing at the time in the concern of the screen.

A little past one in the afternoon, a bit early for the usual PM white collars, but that's their business. He reached for a few of the papers on his desk, shuffling them around, sticking some in drawers, it was better to look busy in front of some these people. He heard padded footsteps walk down the corridor and stop at his desk just as he was intently examining some meaningless packet.

"Good morning, Mr. Shaer. I require some assistance."

Huh, that voice sounded kinda familiar. Eh, whatever, "Certainly sir," Henry said, tossing the packet to the side, his other hand already navigating to the Gotham Tower directory, "How can I help yo-"

He looked up at the tenant and stopped, brow rising so fast they ripped skin off his nose. Then he stood from his chair like it was on fire and slapped a palm onto his baton.

The tenant watched him, raising both hands to about shoulder level, but keeping his voice level, "I know how this most likely looks, Mr. Shaer, but I assure you this came from no action of mine. Not that I can recall, at least,"

He did recognize that voice. He recognized the man, tan skin, short hair, clean shave. He even remembered the jacket, at least before it turned into a crime scene evidence, "M-Mr. Abad?" Henry said keeping a firm hand on his club.

"Yes, Mr. Shaer. I would appreciate you helping me find out how" He vaguely waved a hand over his ruined clothing, " _This_ happened. As well why all of my belongings seem to be missing from my apartment."

"Wha- I- I."

"May I see last night's security recording? Time may be a factor."

What the fuck? What the fuck?! Why was- _how_ was?! Why the fuck was he covered in blood?! Henry unclasped his baton from his belt and brandished it in front him, the weapon unsteady in his quaking hands.

Abad stepped back, keeping his hands in plain sight, "Calm down, I'm just as confused as you are,"

"Y-yo-you're dead,"

"Threats aren't smart, Mr. Shaer."

"Nonono, you are fucking dead! You've been dead for a fucking month!"


End file.
